


Splintered Flames, Burning Dreamer

by wevegotworktodo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Double Penetration, F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 01:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10843317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wevegotworktodo/pseuds/wevegotworktodo
Summary: Setting: between 12x8 and 12x9.Having a past - not that kind of ‘past’ - with the Winchester’s meant you were one of their first calls for help putting Lucifer back in the cage. That part worked out quite well, but goddamnit you got caught. Now you're in lockdown and fuck if your heat doesn't hit. Good thing the ‘bad guys’ want you alive and talking.





	Splintered Flames, Burning Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> Following ABO rules where heats (after 25y/o) and ruts (after 35y/o) make the subject susceptible to death if knotting does not occur.

“Brothers. Born in Lawrence, Kansas to Mary Winchester, deceased, and John Winchester, also deceased. FBI started investigating them back in 2007. Assault, murder, multiple counts of desecrating a corpse. They made the FBI’s most wanted in 2011, then died in a shootout with police in Ankeny, Iowa. At least, that’s what their file said; but apparently not.”

“And the girl?”

“Same M.O. Her record runs mostly hand in hand with the Winchester’s from 2007 to 2010, then she drops off the map, goes quiet until today. Does look like she's the only one who’s not a ghost though.” 

***

It’d been just over six weeks. Six fucking weeks since you were captured by...?

By a part of the government that probably doesn't even exist anywhere on paper. Sector seven type shit. The type of agency only the elite know about and the even more elite ever have the pleasure of meeting. 

Obviously, you run with an elite group. 

Thrown into a 8x10 cell, only a tiny cot and a shiny toilet-sink, walls a drab gray concrete, a single light along the back, probably underground somewhere in the middle of nowhere. You're only able to calculate how long it's been because the bright fluorescents are turned off at night, on again just before breakfast. 

Like the boys, you have refused to talk and had been left alone to your own devices. 

It was HELL. 

Hell doesn’t even begin to describe it.

The first several days you were angry-- angry at Sam and Dean for dragging you into their mess, again. Angry at Cas for leaving the three of you there alone to be captured. Angry at Crowley for being, well, Crowley, King of Bloody Hell, with 101 reasons to hate him, most of which you’d find almost endearing in anybody else. Angry at yourself for being stupid enough to say yes when you knew the fucking POTUS was involved. Even though you kinda thought, hoped is more like it, they had the vessel pegged wrong and you'd track Luci down in another washed up rock star-- Bon Jovi maybe. 

The second week wasn't that bad. The anger had dissipated and you had been given time to reflect on your life- where you’d been, where you were going --the basics. Then you thought about missed chances, the ones you didn’t have the backbone for, fleeting moments that escaped your grasp because you were too chicken to speak up, to move past your own bullshit excuses to say the words. Moments you should have used to tell the boys how you felt- either of them, both of them- didn’t matter. 

An old rail yard outside of Milwaukee. Turned out the werewolf you'd been tracking for a week had also been tracking you, got you cornered, no way out. Sam swooping in to save you at the last minute. His face, his lips, so close, and you could've sworn there was a shared moment when he breathed into you as he was leaning in loosening your ropes, but you looked away- a quick glance at the ceiling, and it was over, just like that. 

Stull cemetery, right after Sam half-gainered into the pit with Lucifer-- you’d just witnessed everyone you cared about either die or be beaten half to death. You're leaned against the Impala, relieved that Cas and Bobby are back, that Dean’s healed, but still grief stricken. Can't turn it off so fast. Not when you're mourning just the loss of Sam, but all of this--this...family. Dean’s promised to hang it up, be with Lisa, so there's no place for you anymore. He's beside you, arms crossed over his chest, and if there ever was a time to spill your guts, confess how you really feel, well, now’d be it. Instead you hug, lingering, reluctant to let him go. But you do, you let him climb in and drive off, find your own way back via angel wings and constipation. 

So. Fucking. Many. Times. you had the opportunity- countless hours spent on the road, numerous hotels with shared beds, hundreds of beers and bottles of whiskey, close calls with dozens of stitches and smooth skin, and wondering eyes, and gah! 

Next, came the nightmares. No hope of escape even with open eyes. Faces, voices, of those you couldn’t save, staring at you, whispering to you constantly. The twelve year old girl in Knoxville, taken by a Djinn. The mother of three just outside of Seattle, drained by a vampire and two of the kids turned for kicks-- you can still smell their blood, see their heads roll. So. Many. More. They had almost broken you, bringing you so close to submission, to spilling your guts. Only managing to hold out for fear of what trigger happy non-existent government goons might do to Sam and Dean. 

Never once had it occurred to you how dangerous being locked away really was, mental torture of the worst kind- yes, but physically- no. 

Until the fever hit. 

Waking up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night you find your body drenched in sweat, your onesie, sheets, all damp. An aching, low in your belly but deep in your bones. There's no mistaking it. 

You're in heat. 

For an older omega, un-mated, the shit hits quick, hard, and shows no mercy. There are no hormone suppressants, no specially designed toys, none of the items you would usually use to help you through it. All you can do is pray that the fever brings a quick psychosis, that you're mentally unaware of the slow torture you're body will endure before you're reaped. 

**

The lights flash on, a low hum, so bright that you can't even force your eyes open-- not yet. 

It's hard to distinguish because your heart is beating so loudly in your ears but you force yourself to focus, every single noise is important, perhaps giving you vital information on getting the hell out of here. You've given up on yourself, but for as long as you can you'll try for the boys. It's just the footsteps of the morning guard making his rounds. Keys jingle, and you hear a clang of metal, then “Chow time” in the all too familiar gruff voice. Like the past forty-four mornings he repeats the same routine a second time before coming to your door. He opens the service hatch, sliding the tray in. “Chow time.” When you don't pick up the tray he bellows out again, “Yo, eat up.” There's no answer, only groaning, so he slides the top vision panel open to take a better look. 

The fashionable standard issue gray jumpsuit is crumpled in the corner. You're crumpled on the floor beside it in the fetal position trying to get some relief on your too hot skin from the cool concrete. Your hair is a tangled mess, all but dripping wet, a couple stray strands have fallen forward and are stuck to your forehead. A small pool of slick is gathered beneath you, blatantly glistening in the too strong beams of light. 

He shuts both panels, tells his partner to stay put, before hasty and heavy footed steps retreat down the hallway. 

You jerk when you hear unexpected clanging. Relieved and mortified at the same time when the second guard tells the boys to ‘calm down”, which is answered by very distinctive, low and guttural, sounds you'd best describe as growling. 

Are they?...No…

It can't be. 

You figured at some point they'd scent you, even through all the concrete and the metal, but they're the fucking Winchesters, certainly they'd have a better hold on themselves than to succumb in less than a day. 

Both of them? 

This is what you call up shit creek without a paddle. 

**  
Camp’s office:

Sanchez is standing just inside the door, refusing to take the seat he was offered. “You heard what the guard said, she's in heat for Christ’s sake.” 

“I heard him just fine, I just disagree with your plan.” The elder man leans back in his chair, pretending to be more confident than he really is in his original orders. 

“For the past two months we've been sitting around with our junk in our hands because you wanted to wait them out. Now’s our chance. You want them alive, this is the only way. Both Dean and Y/N are of the age that their symptoms are life threatening. Sam, well, he's our wildcard. I'm telling you this will work, nothing like a bitch in heat to turn two brothers against each other. Trust me, somebody will talk.” 

“Fine, but if this turns out badly it's going on your resume’.”

**

They’re both so far away, but so close, and smell so good-- each distinctive, and surprisingly almost exactly how you'd always imagined their rut would. Dean, he smells like apple pie, warm and rich, with hints of cinnamon that linger between your nose and your palate. Sam’s scent is a bit harder to explain- like sitting in the library, curled up in a freshly laundered cashmere blanket, safe and comfortable, just what you need right now. The two together- everything you've ever wanted. Thoughts race, mini movies playing in your head of Sam's strong arms wrapping around you while you taste Dean. Slick flows more freely now, and with every breath you can feel your temperature rising. 

To say the least you're disoriented when the guards come in, handcuffing you, dragging you to your feet and into the hallway. Your knees buckle under you twice before you're able to take a step on your own. Raising your head a bit at the increased prominence of Alpha scent you're able to see Dean, also handcuffed, being pulled from his cell. Glancing eye contact tells you he’s doing everything in his power to hold back right now. 

Two armed guards instruct Sam to stay in the far corner while his door is opened and you're tossed in. He's compliant, has to be, no other choice when there's very large artillery cocked and pointed in his direction. Not when his backup is still restrained, visibly ill, taking to the deficit that is hormones quite a bit harder he is. 

Dean’s in next behind you, also knows now’s not the time to wing an escape attempt, because leaving you behind isn't an option, and obviously you're not going anywhere, naked, all of you reeking of desperation. Uncuffed, and shoved forward while the door slide slams shut behind him.

Long panicked looks are shared between the boys, wheels turning, considering options. Dean’s the first to speak up, “What is this, some sick fucking game?” he grinds out, back still pressed firmly against the cell door defensively. 

Sam’s always (ok, maybe not always, but generally) the voice of reason, “Maybe, but they're keeping the two of you alive.” Now Sam's look is sympathetic, “I can fight this. You know there's no other way.” 

Dean accepts the circumstances, simply nods, moves to the cot where you're curled up. You're hands are still cuffed behind your back, and the ache low in your gut has you rocking in pain. He sits beside you, manages to be gentle as he brushes your hair out of your face so you can look up at him without moving. 

“I n-n-need you.” 

“I know sweetheart. I need you too. This just isn't the way I imagined our first time together.” 

The close proximity of Alpha begins to relieve some of the pain, “You, you’ve thought about us…together?”

Why? 

“Of course, I'd be a fool not to.” 

You're skeptical, unclear at this point if Dean’s just trying to make you more comfortable given the current state of affairs, or if he's for real. Doesn't matter ‘cause this is going to happen and regardless of why you'll be able to cross one thing off your bucket list. 

Sam clears his throat, “Me too.” It's just over a whisper. His voice is shaky, cracks a little, but is louder when he begins again, “Me… I-I've thought about you too, about us too.” 

Ok, so maybe you can cross two things off that list. 

Struggling, with Dean’s help you manage to sit up. “Sam, I--”

He cuts you off before you can get anything else out. Eyes dart around the room, looking anywhere but at you, “Shit, sorry. It's ok Y/N, just the hormones talking. Mmm, you smell so fucking good. I-- shit.” 

Fuck it, no regrets. Not anymore. 

You refuse to sit in the dark one more night thinking about the could’ve, should’ves. You breathe in, swallow audibly, force it out into words, “You smell good too Sammy, both of you do. I don't see why we have to be diplomatic here.” 

“Y/N, are you saying…?” Dean asks, brushing his hand across your face. 

You nod, “Both.”

Sam echoes, “Both?” 

Dean’s hand has stopped with his thumb just below your ear, the majority of his palm coming to rest at the back of your neck, fingertips absentmindedly working their way into your hair. He leans forward, pulls you in slightly, his lips turning up to a soft smile, “Both is good.” His lips meet yours and there's…electricity? How else do you describe it? Tingling? Fireworks? It's searing hot and the flesh just might melt off of your lips. But it's also comforting, like you've come home. 

Your lips part slightly and he takes full advantage. Deepening the kiss, tongue slipping past. Yours meets his, and yea, it's exactly like you'd dreamt it would be, but better. It's slow and deliberate, and makes your heart go pitter patter. 

He reluctantly pulls away. Eyes meet yours and their searching. 

And suddenly you're scared to death. 

Dean’s always been able to read you, one look and he can tell if you're in the mood for butter pecan or mint chocolate chip, beer or whiskey, heels or flats. If you need to scream or cry, hug it out or punch something. You'd always kept your feelings for him and Sam just out of his reach, but what if now...now, they've bubbled up close enough to the surface for him to grab hold of. There's that distinct difference between hormone fueled sex and feelings, and you're not sure you're ready to admit just how many and what types of feelings you really have. 

Forgetting to breathe, you pull in a gasp when he crashes into you again. Different, forceful, needy. And oh, for fuck’s sake- he groans. Loud. And you sigh into him, ‘cause what else are you gonna do? Can't grab him by the collar and pull him even closer because you're still cuffed, can't drag his clothes down and off the arms you're dying to touch, to lean into. 

The hand he had planted on the cot beside you slips, slides against your leg, backs of his knuckles are against your skin. Hell, it's a simple accident, a touch that yesterday you'd of mixed with what if’s and hung onto for months. 

Now Dean’s fingers are dancing up your thigh. No? Wrong thigh, those fingers are still tangled in your hair. 

Sam’s fingers are dancing up your thigh. Shit!

Without breaking away from Dean you open your eyes, twist and peek out the corner to see Sam. He makes eye contact, fingers digging in, squeezing, and you thank Chuck for the twinge of pain to remind you this is indeed reality. 

Sam's hands are so big, not like you haven't noticed before, but they weren't dangerously close to your dripping pussy before. Palm rested at the crease between hip and thigh, fingers dipping inward and down, mere millimeters between where he is and where you want him to be. 

Dean’s tongue still traces along yours and you're reluctant to let go, but you do, pull away with his lip between your teeth, press your forehead against his, “Guys, I…” it croaks out. Where's your voice? You clear your throat, start again and it's stronger this time but it still cracks with nerves, adrenaline fueled, and raspy with lust. “I, fuck, I just need you to touch me.”

Dean sits back and now they're both staring. Suddenly you feel exposed, shy even, and you have a moment of dread, just wanna get this over with and get the hell outta here to wallow in self loathing alone, without their pity. 

As fast as the thought crosses your mind it dissipates into the oblivion. You blink, slowly, and maybe they shared a look or some ESP type shit, but they're definitely in tune. One of Dean’s hands circles your breast, thumb grazing across your nipple before pulling it between two fingers and rolling. 

Sam’s spare arm snakes around your waist, pulls you into him without hesitation. His tongue parting your lips as you suck in a breath, sighing it out as you explore each other. 

His other hand- the one that's been dangerously close to your core- it moves. Rather you move, because he drags your thighs apart, slightly. Fingers slip slide down and forward, expertly easing past your folds, tracing along your clit. 

You whimper against his touch and he swallows his own back. Kisses you harder, deeper, when three long thick fingers slide inside of you. 

“How's she feel Sammy?” 

Where'd that come from? 

You know where it came from, but where'd it come from? 

Sam pulls his fingers away, licks them clean, “Fuu- shit, she feels, tastes, good. Ready. So ready.” 

When Sam pulls away to answer you open your eyes. Shit, you hadn't noticed Dean had been gone, all of the hands, and wants, and fantasies rushing your mind. But there he is, standing in the middle of the cell, minus one gray jumpsuit, all milky skin and dusty freckles, stroking his cock, every single thing about him screaming Alpha. 

Was your mouth open...drool? Sam brings you back to him, “Hey, um.. Dean’s gonna, he's gonna go first ‘cause-”

“Yea…,” you nod, eyes darting between the two of them, but you can't make eye contact, “yea, ‘cause life depends on it, right?” 

One stride and Dean’s close, “Hey, nothin’ you don't wanna do.” 

“There's nothin’ I don't wanna do.” Christ, did you just say that outloud? Apparently, ‘cause they're both looking at you like...shit, like they wanna eat you alive. 

Dean drags you to your feet, pulls you against him. His hard length is pressed into your belly, and you feel low a rumble deep in his chest as he kisses you. 

“How you wanna,” He breathes into you, swallows, “so’s you'll be comfortable.” 

You try to get out a measly ‘I don't know,’ but it's hard to let go of those lips long enough so it comes out more of a “M m’t knm.” 

Apparently he's fluent in mumble, ‘cause he gets it, comes back with a plan, “you,” lips, “on,” lips, “top,” lips. 

Dean shuffles his feet, and you do-si-do until the backs of his knees are against the cot. Sam’s moved somewhere, good at this dance, given the two of you the bed. Except…

“Floor,” comes out a shaky whimper. It's cool and inviting and much larger than that crappy cot. 

“Oh, m’kay,” shuffling again, hands carded in your hair, guiding you with his body. 

Then he hits his knees. 

Lowers his head, skims his flattened tongue up your slick coated thigh, doesn't show you any mercy as he dips, circles your clit, then sucks. 

Jesus, it's all you can do to stay upright on your buckling knees. You begin to waver, his hands snaking around your ass, holding you steady as he continues his assault. 

“Sh-shit.” You're thoughts exactly, but in Sam’s voice, in Sam’s shattered voice. So, you twist your head, turn to see him standing more to your side now, watching, not what’s happening below the waist but focused directly on your face, your reaction to what's happening below the waist. 

You pull your bottom lip in, between your teeth, and he contorts his brow, chest heaves as he sucks in a breath, jaw tightens. Your eyes flutter over Sam’s body, the edges of his hair damp and there's a bead of sweat on his forehead threatening to slide along his temple. Buttons undone clear to his waist, still a hint of tan left on his glistening skin, pecks perfectly toned. Feet shoulder width apart, thin fabric stretched, straining, over his very obvious erection. 

“M’ere,” you surprise even yourself with how bold you are. 

But it pays off when Sam steps behind you. Dean’s hands pull forward, holding your thighs apart. Sam pushes in close then let's you lean back into him. The size difference is- well, you're able to contort in the cuffs enough to reach up, trace your fingers across his balls, the base of his cock.

Sam's hands trace the lines of your body, stopping, learning, or rather remembering, every scar. The one on your right hip from the Rugaru in Missouri, left side abdomen, by your belly button, from a salt-n-burn gone wrong in Wisconsin, your right forearm where you'd tripped and fallen on a stroke of bad luck after losing a cursed rabbit's foot in New York. 

Dean is relentless, doing things with his tongue and his fingers that make you think you might break, shatter to pieces in the floor around him. And Sam’s not making things easier, hands drifting over your torso, leaned in with his lips against your neck, his hair brushing across your collarbone sending an added chill through your spine. You wanna say something, tell them you're close, but words don't come anymore- just throaty muffled moans, and heavy breaths, and trembling legs. 

It starts in two places; the very tips of your toes and the top of your head, crashes in waves through your body until it reaches your center, sends your pussy pulsing like it's been hit by lightning. Sinking back into Sam’s arms, he keeps you upright as your cunt clenches around his brother’s fingers, while your head spins, your body shakes, and your knees get all wobbly with bliss. 

Feeling sated is short lived- the aching low in your abdomen is back within moments and you know you need more. Much, much, more. 

Sam tosses Dean the only pillow as he lays back, flat on the concrete, tucks it under his head with one arm. You step across, feet firmly planted on either side of his hips. Moving slowly to retain your balance you drop to one knee, then the other, still hovering just over his aching member. 

His fingers press into your thighs, “Com’on sweetheart can't wait to be inside you,” jutting his hips upward he closes the remaining distance, presses against your warm heat. 

“Fuck, me either.” It's just that it's been a while, like a really long while, since you've had something inside you that wasn't silicone, didn't need a couple AAs to get its motor running. So, maybe, what if, this is a tiny bit intimidating right now, having the modern day equivalent Greek god stretched out beneath you, waiting. 

One more deep breath, then...

Dropping the weight off of your knees, you press your body against his and shift forward. There's a breathy groan, maybe a sort of whimper as your soaked cunt glides up across his shaft and when you sit back he slips perfectly into place. 

You keep him close, deep, rocking your hips in slow deliberate circles. You don't notice the way you arch your back, let your head fall so your hair is skimming across your shoulder blades, the soft moans and the whispered cursing. 

But Sam does. 

The cot creaks as he adjusts himself, and your head springs forward. Oh shit! Yea, Sam, he's uh...watching. Since the second Dean had slipped his rock hard Alpha cock inside you you'd been a teensy bit distracted, but now...

Hips keeping pace you look back over your shoulder at Sam sitting near the foot of the bed. 

“Like what you see? Sammy dyin’ to be where I am, buried up inside you.”

A new wave of arousal takes over, seeps down your thighs, “Y-yea, I do” 

You're hesitant to pull up, away you think, because now nothing will ever be close enough. But you do, you lift because he's rocking forward, upward, urging you on.   
You set a good pace, both pressing and pulling in sync, feeling fucking amazing, but you can smell Sam, like his scent is calling you home, can't get him out of your mind.

And then a wicked little thought crosses your mind. 

So… “Sam,” You'll blame in on your heat, swear you were mad, “there's room for you too.” The cot squeaks as he shifts again, croaks out a low groan. 

Dean licks his lips, tips of his fingers turning white as they squeeze into your thighs, eyes wide while he processes what you just said. 

“Um…,Y/N?” you take advantage when his pink tongue darts out again, leaning down, lips touching, grazing your tongue against his. He pulls his legs back until his feet are flat on the floor, spilling you further forward, juts his hips higher, deeper. 

“I know,” believe me, you know, “it's--crazy, I…” and you come close to spilling the beans, telling them how you really feel, but you choke it back shakily, “both of you, two-- two alpha’s, it's-- shit, it's doin’ things to me ya know?” 

“I know, fuck, yea, I know. You just sure you're up for it.”

“I think I'll manage,” you half giggle. 

Apparently Sam's been on board since you managed to say it, just waiting on Dean’s reaction before jumping right in beside him, literally. The bed creaks one last time as Sam stands, shrugs out of his jumpsuit. His knees hit on the concrete when he drops, moans when his hands find your hips. 

You lie forward, chest to chest with Dean, curl your head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He brushes your hair back, away from your face and across your shoulder with his free hand. 

Before you've even completely wrapped your mind around the fact that this is actually happening Sam lines up, pushes forward. He goes slow, almost too slow, and fuck yes the stretch burns, legs shaky beneath it, panting, whimpering moans, and whispered expletives. When he's seated though, oh god, yea, you were meant for this. 

Afraid of fucking this up somehow you stay still, waiting. And then instinct takes over making you the first one to shift, both Alphas falling in with you, moving together, pushing when you push, pulling when you pull, keeping perfect time over and over again. 

Then, you realize your trembling- not just your legs anymore- but you're entirety. Rightly so ‘cause the nerves have built and built, longer than the past couple of hours or even days. Eleven years of feelings coming to a head right now, got even your heart quivering. 

There's a weight nagging at you, can't quite get past. What if this is it? Like really, really it. The last time you ever see them, touch them, feel them. 

It's too much, all of it, the pleasure, the pain, the weight. 

Adrenaline fueled you cave. 

“Fuck, I. I, um…fuck. Jesus, I know it's bad timing.” You straighten your back as much as Sam’s body will allow, oddly enough wanting to torture yourself with the looks on their faces when you say it. 

“Too much, you need us to stop?” 

“No, no-- never. I just, if I don't say it now never will. I think...I mean, I know…that I'm in love with you, with you both.” 

You're expecting something different, nervous as fuck, but neither of them say a word.   
Dean’s eyes go wide a smile starts to spread across his face, hands remain on your thighs, fingertips still white as he grips, digging in harder with each thrust. Sam’s hands wander forward, splay out across your hips pulling you back, closer to him, deeper. Maybe you’d be a little more uneasy about the situation if they weren’t still fucking you senseless, think you should just let it go and enjoy this while it lasts. 

Which isn’t long. 

Their rhythm starts to falter, cocks start a slow drag against all of the right places. You feel yourself tightening, building, overwhelming sensations taking you higher and higher until you fall, spiral over the edge, lightheaded and spent. As if it’s fucking possible Dean’s grip tightens and you know both thighs will be covered with fingertip sized bruises tomorrow. 

Sam’s the first to let go, Dean right behind him, both swelling, exploding, and you think you might too from the fullness of two knots, all of you suddenly bound together. 

And out of nowhere there’s more. 

Sam leans forward, over your right shoulder. Dean leans up and over your left. Both biting down at the same time, just over each pulse point, teeth digging in, burning, bleeding, each claiming you, cementing your binding.

**  
You're laying in a boneless heap, neck bleeding, muscles sore, completely spent. Hasn't felt this good to feel this bad in damn near a decade. Funny how around 14 hours or so ago you were laying on the concrete, praying for death to come on swift wings. 

That's it. 

You sit up so fast that it startles them both. “I know how we're getting out of here.” 

“Hmph, so you're not content to die anymore?”

“Oh, that's exactly what we're gonna do.” “Dean, how do you call a reaper?”

**  
Tomorrow you'll wake from the dead, all of your bumps and bruises healed, your cycles over so you're less trackable. It'll take you a while to notice, too busy making your escape, trudging through the woods, trying to stay one step ahead. Billie’s laughing, smug bitch, because she knows exactly what she's done, yet she can chalk it up to part of the deal. At some point you'll turn your head the right way noticing the burning pain just isn't there anymore, hasn't been all day. Both hands will fly up, inspecting each side of your neck for any evidence of the claiming marks. There's no blood, no pain, no wounds…not even a scar. 

Good, it'll be easier for the boys to let go this way. 

Midnight’s coming soon.


End file.
